To one degree or another, it’s probably also true.

You see, writers share a dirty little secret, guarded with as much conviction as a magician protecting his tricks: ideas are a writer’s least valuable currency.

No, seriously. Everyone has ideas. Ideas are easy. As the White Queen said to Alice, “Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many six impossible things before breakfast.” That acquaintance of yours who wants to write a novel someday? She probably started with what she thinks is a really good idea.

So what?

Of course, not everyone can possibly develop a fecund imagination to rival Stan Lee or Jim Henson or Tom Waits – the current state of the film industry in Hollywood, endlessly churning out its sequels and remakes, more or less proves that some imaginations are healthier than others, but that’s probably a discussion to circle back upon later – but an ability to generate ideas remains the merest of a writer’s skills.

What separates the writer from the masses, then, is not an idea, but an ability to cultivate an idea. An idea is not a story, and not every idea will survive the rigors of becoming a story (in the same way, one supposes, that not every person who has an idea will weather the process of becoming a writer). An idea is only a question, one that begins “What if…?” A writer’s job is to answer that question and all those questions that come after. More specifically, the writer’s job is threefold: determine if the question is worth answering and whether anyone will care if you do, apply the appropriate language, and find the courage to write or walk away. No set order exists for these responsibilities, the writer executes all three at the same time.

I suppose that what lies above represents a digression from the topic at hand. Mark Waid’s keynote address at the 2010 Harvey awards – and forgive me, Mark and anyone reading, I’m cobbling his gist together secondhand from tweets and sound bites – vindicated the limits of copyright, arguing that allowing art to pass into the public domain is ultimately better for culture. “Culture is more important than copyright,” he said. “No one would argue that the world isn’t better by being able to see a Renoir for free. No one says we’d be better off if Shakespeare plays weren’t allowed to be read and performed in high schools.” Mark went on to talk specifically about comics, and specifically about the supremacy of comics as a medium of ideas. “There are more ideas in one week at your comics shop than in 3 years in Hollywood,” he said.

Given such a proliferation of ideas, Mark suggests that protecting them may not be nearly as important as finding ways, new and old, to capitalize on them. The word ‘profit’ leaves a bad taste in my mouth, if only because I still cling to romantic notions of why one produces art, but such is the way of the world we live in. A man has to eat, keep a roof over his head and clothes – preferably clean – on his back. The world in which we live is also one plagued by theft and piracy, and so protecting intellectual property may be as impossible as it is unwise.

The writer’s profession has long been unique insomuch as it rewards the work you’ve done, either through royalties or through the sale of IP, as much as or more than the work you do. But in an era when the work is being given away, with or without its owner’s permission, writers need to recognize that the paradigm has shifted. Gone are the days when you could count on money for the work that’s already been done. Resting on your laurels and selling the IP to Hollywood based on a high-concept pitch scribbled on a napkin, that remains the writer’s equivalent of winning the lottery, so don’t rely on movie money as a source of income. These days, you have to keep writing.

Others can steal your ideas, but the thing they can never replicate is you. Don’t worry about those stolen ideas, you had as many as six of them before breakfast. In an era when ideas are devalued – or, more accurately, in an era when we’re waking up to the fact that ideas never had much value in the first place – what remains is craft, and from craft comes reputation. If ideas are like naked blocks of marble, you need to become goddamn Michelangelo. Remember, anyone can have an idea, but not everyone can turn it into a story. Hone your craft, develop a reputation for quality and efficiency and dependability and the money will come, modest at first, but that’s how it goes. If you wanted to be rich, you wouldn’t have become a writer.

Something else every writer will hear, at least once: “I have a really great idea for a story. If you write it, we can split the profits.” No, thank you. That’s a fool’s bargain. Every writer knows that ideas are the easy part.

If you want to be a writer, find the courage. Do the work.

Execute!

From Josh Hechinger and mpMann again, here is the description:

Douglas Freshley, a former schoolmaster, is hired by his longtime friend, Shane McNally to tutor their rambunctious son, Bat. But when the Delancey gang raids the McNally ranch, killing all the adults, it’s up to the corpse of Doug to rise up, protect Bat and exact some good ol’ frontier justice. Little does he know, however, that he is being stalked by the Deadliest Gun in the West (or anywhere): the Grim Reaper himself.

This is late notice, but if the book seems even remotely interesting to you, and you’d like to support intelligent and quirky independent comics and the people who make ‘em, please let the friendly proprietor of your local comics shop know before tomorrow. It will, in all likelihood, be available for pre-order after tomorrow, but your LCS’ initial orders are due on Tuesday, and it’s initial orders that make or break a book.

Here is the description from iTunes:

Souji Okita lives in a little private estate on the outskirts of Tokyo. Once, he held the respect of his peers and the fear of his enemies as the finest swordsman of the Shogun’s own anti-terrorism unit. And while that wasn’t so long ago, now all he has is a wicked case of tuberculosis, a nurse with the patience of a saint, and a cat.

Go. Buy it.

2. J. Christopher Greulich and I are putting together TEETH. It’s our attempt to rescue werewolves and vampires from the clutches of TWILIGHT. Monsters fighting monsters. Here’s the cover for the prologue:

You can order Volume One and Volume Two through Amazon, or you can supply this Diamond Order Code to the friendly proprietor or your local comics shop: AUG10 0455

The list of illustrators for these stories includes Anthony Peruzzo, who is also a friend of this website.

Thanks!

Click to embiggen, or click HERE.

I’ll have honest-to-goodness new material to show here soon. In the meantime, if you’re on Facebook, check out the page for BAREFOOT, my new for-print project with artist Gabriel Andrade, Jr. Forget about Team Jacob and Team Edward; join Team Barefoot.

I’ve missed you, Internet. I’ve been away too long.

I invite everyone to check out my other webcomics by following the links on the right side of the page.

When Tim Twelves and I were hashing out our own contributions to the WORK! Anthology, I pitched him the three-page script for this story. “I don’t think ‘professional killer’ is the kind of work we’re talking about,” he said.

“Just read it,” I replied. “It’s not about her. It’s about coal miners.”

Tim scoffed. “Nah. We’ve got enough mining stories,” he said, which is true. Some of our other contributors had already turned in brilliant pieces about the historical struggles of coal miners. I knew this when I wrote the story, but I wasn’t interested in exploring coal mining conditions from fifty or a hundred years ago. As I write this, the Crandall Canyon Mine collapse is barely two years old.

Now, I’m about as far to the left as guy can be without actually pitching a tent above Trotsky’s tomb, and as such, coal mining sets off a particular set of bells and whistles. After all, in an age of wind power and of cleanly splitting atoms, we still insist on digging rocks out of the ground to burn for fuel. And enterprising readers can find a laundry list of sins committed by modern mining companies, mostly in the name of profit. A year before the Crandall Canyon collapse, the mine faced 64 violations and a $12000 fine, which is, scarily, on par with the national average. The Mine Safety and Health Administration levied a fine of $1.84 million after the collapse, which translates to less than 3% of the company’s annual coal sales, or alternately, to about $200,000 for each of the 9 lives lost. In turn, the MSHA was criticized for lax oversight and mismanagement of its rescue operation. Whether the collapse itself was caused by an earthquake or the seismological activity recorded around the mine was the result of the collapse itself remains in dispute. While the Crandall Canyon mine remains permanently closed, the industry itself has returned to business as usual.

The Undertaker’s Daughter was originally written to passively settle an argument: being older makes you neither smarter nor better than me. Rose Kincaid is seventeen years old and she routinely outsmarts (and outguns) men and women two or three times her age. Having satisfactorily settled my argument, at least internally, my Undertaker’s Daughter, my Rose, has become a blunt instrument pointed at the problems of the world, with which I try to beat some sense into the universe.

So, HERE is a vicious little story about a vicious little reality: after hundreds of years — never mind hundreds of protest and folk songs written on subject — nothing about the coal mining industry has changed.